Time of the Season
by the classicist
Summary: 'Tis the week before Christmas, and Ruth has gone away on holiday. But she can't seem to escape a certain colleague... Fluff with a bit of angst and a few laughs too, I hope. Disclaimer inside.
1. Friday

**Disclaimer:** All credit to Kudos Productions. Hope you enjoy it!

Harry knows something is wrong as soon as she knocks on his door. Ruth _never_ knocks. Between Lucas' suicide and the investigation, they have had very little time to talk. For the first time he appreciates how much he has missed it. "Come in," he calls, moving to the drinks cabinet and loosening his tie. The inquiry today has been extremely trying – the jobs-worths at Internal Affairs (those who can't accept that they haven't really got a leg to stand on) have been going through everything with a fine toothcomb, and they've been asking questions about things even he can't remember happening. He's only here to pick up some boxes, things that he thought he could do without and later realised he needed.

She appears empty-handed, which is unusual. She at least makes an effort when she comes here to pretend to be dropping off files, or something of the sort. Ruth sits without being asked, and shakes her head at his mimed offer of a drink. Once he has served himself, he leans against the desk beside her, noting with pain the white, taut scars that still mar her wrists, souvenirs of her kidnap during the whole Bateman fiasco. If there is one thing he still can't forgive himself for, it is this – the fact that she was put in danger, and as a consequence of his actions, too…

Somehow, she realizes what he is doing, and glances up at him with a soft smile, comfort in her eyes. "I only came to ask you something, while we aren't saving the country," she explains wryly. His heart foolishly leaps at the thought of various questions (most of which are wholly inappropriate) that she could ask him, and he mentally scolds himself. The Bateman incident was over a month ago now, and in that time, she hasn't given him any sign that she still retains feelings for him. Even when he received the date for the start of the investigation, and was told that he had been relieved of his responsibilities for the present, she didn't react in any way. It was as though she really _was_ dead inside. Each time he comes to the Grid, slowly clearing out his office, there is no reaction. He often comes at lunch – when the majority of the team are out – but he always sees _her_.

"I cleared it with the Home Secretary a few weeks ago, but I wanted to ask you too..." she burbles awkwardly, twisting her hands together in her lap. "I'm taking some leave next week… only if you – I mean, the team… will be alright without me. I thought, since things are relatively quiet, that I'd go away for Christmas." Harry blinks. He doesn't remember the last time she had the chance to take leave. She's definitely deserved it, of course, but he realizes that he'll miss her. Terribly. Frantically. Desperately – "Er, Harry?"

She's gazing up at him nervously, half-expecting him to refuse her request. He forces a polite smile and moves away from her to sit down behind his desk. "Of course. Take the week. Relax." Ruth gives an audible sigh of relief, and stands up to leave. "Thanks Harry. I appreciate it. If you need to get in touch, here's the number for the cottage." She bends down and scribbles something on a slip of paper, impatiently pushing her hair out of the way as she does so. "Have a good Christmas," she whispers as she rises. With that, she is gone, leaving only a faint whiff of sweet perfume to mark the fact that she was ever there at all. Harry, ever the gentleman, has risen at her departure, but now he sinks back into his chair and covers his face with his hands. The next few weeks of waiting and worrying are going to be hard enough, without knowing that the Grid will be trying to cope with the absence of one of his most capable officers. At least, he tries to convince himself that that is all that's the matter…

* * *

The next knock at his door is equally unwelcome. It comes in the middle of the afternoon, just as a headache is beginning to pulse at Harry's temples. It's worse because he knows that, this time, it can't be Ruth. He watched her leave the Grid just a few minutes ago, on her way to a late lunch. "Come!" he snaps, and Tariq pokes his head around the door.

"This had better be _very_ important," Harry continues as the young technician seats himself at the desk. Tariq, to his surprise, grins and jokes, "Ouch – so Ruth told you about her leave then..." Harry casts his subordinate a withering glance, longing for the days when technicians meddled with computers and nothing else.

Impatiently, he reminds Tariq, "I have far more important things to worry about than Ruth trotting off on holiday, Tariq. The inquiry, for example, and the fact that, yet again, some crank is attempting to blow us all to kingdom come." Tariq nods slowly, and then murmurs slyly as he gets up, "Sure. But I wouldn't fancy Cornwall at this time of year..."

Harry has turned his attention back to his half-full box already, and only utters a vague, non-committal, "Hmm." Just as Tariq steps outside, the full implications of the technician's words sink in and his head jerks up.

"Tariq!" he barks, and the technician obediently returns inside.

"Cornwall?" Harry asks. Tariq nods, trying to hide a smile.

"She's borrowing a cottage from a uni friend, apparently. I wondered if you needed the address, or anything, you know, for the records..." His voice trails off, and he presents Harry with a sheet of notepaper. On it, in Ruth's unmistakably elegant handwriting, is an address. Harry hesitates for half a second and then accepts it. "Thanks, Tariq," he nods. Then, trying to sound nonchalant, he inquires, "Does Ruth...?"

Tariq finishes his sentence. "...Know that I'm giving you this?

"Yes, in a word."

"No. No sense in worrying her about anything."

* * *

She is, as usual, the last one to go home. Or so she thinks... As she prepares to leave the Grid that night, she notices that Harry's overcoat is still hanging up in his office. She hesitates for a moment, and then enters.

Harry is lying asleep on his couch, tie loosened and jacket strewn half over him. Her eyes widen in shock. How he hasn't been woken before now, she doesn't know, but as she moves quietly and stealthily towards the door, he shifts and half wakes up. "Ruth?" he asks blearily, hoisting himself half up on his elbow. She sighs and does the first thing that crops into her head.

Walking over, she softly presses a kiss to his forehead. "Go back to sleep," she tells him. "You're…you're just dreaming." He smiles softly.

"Oh, how true," she thinks she hears him murmur as he sinks back down. She stands there for a moment, gazing down at him, suddenly sad, and wonders why he is here, and not at home in bed. The inquiry is hitting him hard, she knows, but for once there is nothing she can say to make it better. The mere thought of it makes her feel guilty beyond belief. If it hadn't been for her, Harry would never have taken such a foolish risk. She reaches out a hand to wake him properly, and then decides against it. It might provoke awkward questions. Instead, as she leaves, she makes sure she shuts his office door with an especially loud crash, and hurries off the Grid.

Inside the office, the crash wakes Harry. He groans. He'd only intended to catch ten minutes of sleep before risking the journey home. Glancing at his watch, he notices how late it is. Probably a kindly cleaner, too shy to wake up the Head of Section D (even one may or may not be sacked within the next week), shut the door to wake him…

A shame though… He recalls that he was having a rather pleasant dream, though the finer details escape him. He seems to remember Ruth being there, kissing his forehead with such a sweet smile. "Definitely a dream, old son," he grumbles as he rises, and shrugs his jacket on.


	2. Saturday

Ruth wakes up feeling relaxed for the first time in months. The small bedroom in the cottage she is staying in (courtesy of a friend of hers) is painted in a calming blue colour, and its windows overlook the crashing sea below. For a while she stays in bed, relishing the fact that no national emergency requires her to get up immediately.

Once dressed, she decides on a walk down to the beach, despite the icy temperatures outside. For so long, all she has wanted is space and time to think. To decide. To _analyse_. The scenery around the Cornish cottage is beautiful, and entirely conducive to such an activity. The cottage is beautiful inside too – all wooden beams and open fires, and a huge real Christmas tree that Polly has thoughtfully set up for her, covered in tinsel and lights.

She walks fast at first to warm up, and then slows down to enjoy the peace of the beach. No one else is there. The only sound is the rhythmical pounding of the waves against the shore, in time with her breathing. Harry is the first thing her mind turns to. He is her boss. Her colleague. Her tentative friend. And, if she is honest with herself, the only man she has ever imagined herself settling down with. The years she spent with George in Cyprus were wonderful – simple, and elegant, as she once described it to Harry. He had been kind, and gentle and understanding. But she hadn't loved him enough to take that leap and marry him. He'd asked her, more than once, and each time she had made some excuse. She wouldn't have blamed him if he had left her. But he hadn't. He'd stayed, and hidden his disappointment to the extent that if Ruth hadn't been an analyst, she would never have even guessed that it was there.

And all the time, in the back of her mind, there had been Harry. In these years of exile, he was sometimes the only thing that had kept her going. The possibility that somehow, somewhere, they would meet again. That he had not forgotten her. The possibility that he would manage to find her, and would come to rescue her. She had imagined that every broad-shouldered shadow on the Cypriot pavements she walked along was his. That every cultured, deep voice she heard speak English belonged to him. Of course, it was never true.

Does she love him? If she'd been asked the same question in the past, she would have answered yes. Unconditionally, irrevocably. Her love for him had been set in stone, something that was so solid a part of her that she didn't even bother to question her feelings, even if she hadn't had the courage to voice them.

But, since her return, things have been so difficult between them. His ill-timed proposal at Ros' funeral only exacerbated the situation, as did his actions during what, on the Grid, has somehow become known as the Bateman fiasco. They have barely been able to meet each other's eyes, and it has been so painful that many times, she has had to run to the ladies' after their morning briefings to cry over the whole stupid mess. She is crying now, she realises, and doesn't know why.

Is it because she knows that Harry might not be there when she gets back to London after Christmas? Is it because she knows that she will miss him with a deep, tearing ache – like the one she is experiencing now, but ten times worse because she knows it will never go away? Or is it because she has suddenly comprehended the life-changing knowledge that she is still in love with the inexplicable, quiet, serious, committed man that she has refused more times than she cares to remember?

On the walk home, Ruth feels calmer. Her eyes are sore and red from weeping, but she is smiling. A true, joyful smile, with no trace of bitterness or cynicism, which feels like it could split her face in two from its strength. Anticipation builds in her heart as she opens her door again and for reasons unknown to herself, she checks the phone as soon as she gets into the living room. The knowledge that no one has called, or even left a message somehow deflates her happiness. It isn't as if she is expecting anyone to call her. Least of all Harry...

But he could have.

* * *

Harry sits in his living room at home, trying to convince himself that he isn't dreading the coming week without her. He isn't succeeding. He can't help thinking about all the things he will miss – her voice, her laugh (she does laugh, whenever she isn't speaking to him), the fact that she never knocks on his door, the flash of spirit in her eyes when they disagree... The list is endless. He scowls and reaches for the phone, hands itching to call her cottage. Will she be in at this time of the day?

He pauses, about to tap in the number. There is no reason to call, no excuse he can make if she picks up the phone, and nothing he has to say. He sighs loudly, and Scarlett, sitting in her basket in the corner, whines in sympathy with her master. Harry smiles. "Sorry, Scarlett," he mutters, rising to scratch the dog's ears. "I'm depressing you too..."

If only things weren't so difficult between them. If only Ruth didn't blame him for George and Nico, for Lucas and Albany, for so many things. If only he hadn't proposed to her. If only he had been able to keep his feelings for her in check. If, if, if... "Useless," he growls, irritated. It is useless to keep playing over these regrets in his head. They won't make Ruth love him, after all. They won't make it any more likely that he will keep his job.

Except, he doesn't really care about that anymore – the JIC and Internal Affairs can drag him over the coals if they want to. Somehow, everything he has spent his life fighting for had suddenly seemed unimportant, next to the fact that Ruth was alive and well, because of his choice. If it was treason to save the life of the person you loved most on earth, well, then long live traitors! A grim smile forced its way onto his face. If he was honest with himself, though, he hadn't just made the choice to save Ruth's life. Deep down, he had cherished the hope that his actions would have awakened a realisation in her that she loved him too.

The plan has drastically backfired. Ever since the Bateman fiasco, she has barely been able to look him in the face on the few occasions that they have seen each other. He wonders if he disgusts her now, or if she knows that she will not be able to keep the anger from her face if she spends too much time in his company. Well, if that is the case, her clumsy attempts at distancing herself are not working. He can't stop loving her, despite the addition of his own efforts.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Harry catches up Scarlett's lead. "Come on, Scarlett!" he calls brusquely, making his way into the hall. "Walk!"


	3. Sunday

The next morning, the buzzing of his phone wakes Harry at five o'clock. His heart leaps for a moment, foolishly thinking that perhaps Ruth is calling him. To his surprise, and even dread, he sees that it is the Home Secretary. Suppressing a groan, he answers. "Home Secretary, good morning."

The Home Secretary sounds criminally awake, much to Harry's displeasure. "Ah, Harry – sorry to have woken you, old chap, but I've got some rather important news for you. The inquiry called a private session last night – didn't need you there – and they've made a decision." _Now_ Harry is awake. He swallows, forgetting his _sod-them-all_ resolve of yesterday. He props himself up on one elbow and asks hoarsely, attempting humour, "So, am I out of a job?" So confident is he that the answer will be in the affirmative, he nearly drops the phone when the Home Secretary replies, "Well, no, actually. They're giving you a hefty slap on the wrist, and you're on probation for a year, but you're in the clear. It's extremely lenient, and I have no idea what strings have been pulled behind the scenes – but there you have it. Crisis averted."

It takes a moment for the news to sink in, and then Harry realises that he is overwhelmingly relieved, not least because it means that he will still, in some way, be connected to Ruth. "Er...thank you, Home Secretary. I appreciate the call," he manages quietly. The Home Secretary chuckles down the line, and explains, "An official announcement will be made this afternoon. I'll see you for a meeting on Thursday, Harry." He ends the call. Harry sinks back onto his pillows, smiling. At least now he has something to call Ruth about...

* * *

She's about to go for another walk when the phone rings. Sighing in exasperation, she tucks her hair behind her ears, and picks up, desperately hoping that it isn't one of Polly's boyfriends. She loves her friend very much, but she can't help feeling sometimes that she has more than her fair share of men. Unlike Ruth herself...

"Hello," she answers in a voice that she hopes will make it entirely clear that she is neither Polly nor in the mood for a long conversation. There is a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone, and then she hears an entirely familiar voice. "Ruth, it's Harry..." She sits down on the sofa with an audible _thump_. "Wha- Harry? Er...can I help?" Her heart is racing stupidly quickly, and she can feel her cheeks flushing, too. That is enough to irritate her.

"Not particularly. I wanted you to be the first to know – the inquiry's over. I'm in the clear. Probation for a year, and a slap on the wrist, but I'm keeping my job. I've got a meeting with Towers on Thursday." His voice still sounds croaky, and she wonders how long he has been awake for. Is he still in bed? She quickly shies away from that thought, and focuses on her reply. "Um...C-congratulations," she manages to tell him, trying to suppress the urge to leap in the air, squealing with happiness.

Harry closes his eyes. She sounds so...distant. Almost as if she doesn't care. Had she entirely reconciled herself to the loss of his career, then? Had she decided that it would be so much easier on her if he _was_ sacked? "Thanks. You don't sound very pleased, Ruth," he murmurs softly. She takes an age to reply. "Of course I'm pleased, Harry. Really, I am. It's just a little...overwhelming."

For how can she explain to him that she is so happy she could burst? How can she tell him that she has never meant any words so sincerely as she means these? _Why is everything so difficult?_ Tears prick her eyes, and they are so sudden that she can't force them down. A teardrop trickles down her cheek, and she sobs, just once. Silently, she prays that Harry hasn't heard her. Of course, he has. He _is_ an intelligence officer, after all.

Harry is stunned – surely she isn't dreading working with him again so much that she is weeping? "Ruth, are you _crying_?" he asks incredulously. Ruth panics. If she lets him continue talking in this vein, then he might ask why she is weeping, and in her current state of mind, she doesn't quite know how she would answer. "N-no!" she protests. She knows her voice is too loud and shaky to convince anyone but an especially dim-witted five year old, but at this point she doesn't care. "Must be a bad line, Harry," she sniffs.

Harry waits for a moment in case she is going to speak again, and finally admits defeat. He doesn't even have the heart to contradict her. "You're probably right," he says soothingly. "Sorry for calling so early." Ruth wipes her eyes quickly, and takes a steadying breath. "Don't be. Bye, Harry." She is so busy hunting for a tissue, and his voice is so quiet and sad, that she almost misses his parting line. "Bye, Ruth. I'll see you back at work."

"Yes. And Harry? I'm glad about the inquiry." Her voice is very soft and sincere. His fears melt away.

After the phone call, she finds it impossible to settle into any task. She sits in the living room, alternately crying and cursing herself for being so emotional. Harry has his job back, and everything will go back to normal. But the problem is, she doesn't want it to. She doesn't want to continue being distant and curt. She doesn't want to waste any more opportunities. But how can she tell Harry this? How can she change her mind so suddenly, after all the pain she has caused him over the past few months?

She feels suddenly sleepy, but forces herself to continue thinking. It isn't fair on him... it isn't fair on...it isn't fair... it isn't...isn't...


	4. Monday

**Author's note:** Thanks for the reviews for the previous chapters - the whole story is written, so expect fast and frequent updates!

The smell of baking bread fills the tiny cottage, and midmorning sunlight pours through the windows. Nothing could be better. At least, that is what Ruth is trying to tell herself. She has barely slept following yesterday's conversation with Harry, and she knows she looks a complete mess. So she has done what she always does when a crisis looms – buries herself in some other task. His words keep playing around in her head: _"I wanted you to be the first to know...I'm keeping my job... you don't sound very pleased, Ruth."_

"Impossible man," she growls between clenched teeth. Everything had seemed so simple on Saturday, and then Harry had phoned... Of course she is happy for him, but work will be so much more difficult now that he will still be there. She will, obviously, have to hide her feelings from him again. She is fully aware of the hypocrisy of admitting her love for him, and expecting him to reciprocate. That would put Harry in an impossible position. That is why she has been so distant since the Bateman fiasco – she knows that she has forfeited any and all rights to his friendship or feelings after her rejection of him. She'd thought she was ready to move on. She'd thought she didn't care anymore.

How wrong she had been... She is shaken out of her musings by the phone ringing. Ruth walks slowly to answer it, telling herself with every step that it isn't Harry, and_ hoping_ with every step that it is. "Hello?" she says tentatively, and is rewarded when Harry answers her immediately. "Hi, Ruth, it's Harry. I need a bit of help..."

Panic strikes her and she starts babbling. "Help? Harry, what's wrong? Has something happened? I can be in London in a couple of-" Harry starts chuckling, and Ruth forces herself to close her mouth. She glances at herself in the mirror and realises that not only is she flushing, but that she also has flour smeared across her cheek. She brushes at it, hoping that Harry won't be able to hear her.

"Calm down," he advises her. "Everything's fine. I just wanted to ask... well, it's a bit embarrassing, actually..." His voice trails off, and Ruth's face creases into a frown. "Embarrassing?" she prompts curiously. Harry sighs deeply, and murmurs, "Yes. You see, the photocopier's broken, and I can't for the life of me work out how to fix it."

Ruth fights a smile. The image of Harry trying to fix a photocopier is, to say the least, amusing. He is well known on the Grid for his avoidance of anything more technical than a mobile phone, and he has been known on occasion to avert his eyes from any overt display of flashing buttons... "Isn't that more Tariq's department?" she asks, wondering why, with such a well-trained technician on site, the Head of Section D is mending his own photocopier.

Harry casts a dark glance over at Tariq's empty desk before he answers. "Ah, Tariq. He called in sick this morning – flu, apparently. His mother's holding him hostage and force-feeding him chicken soup." Ruth giggles, and his frown disappears, to be replaced with a soft, wistful smile. He knows from experience that her face will be turning slightly pink and her beautifully blue eyes will be glinting with honest mirth. He just wishes he was there to see it. "Poor boy," she clucks sympathetically. "He hates chicken..." Harry's smile widens – one of the many things he loves about Ruth is her compassion for others, especially her mothering of the younger members of the team.

"Quite," he replies. "So – can you help? If I kick it any more, the Service doctor will be seeing me again far sooner than expected." In her cottage, Ruth's smile fades. The last time that happened, he had had a cut across his temple from John Bateman's gun... The mere memory of the blood and bruising, and the recollection that it could all have been so much worse is enough to banish any trace of humour from the moment. "Yes," she replies quietly. "Hold the yellow button down – it's flashing again, isn't it? – and it should turn green..."

She hears the beeping of electronics in the background and then Harry is back. "Yes, it's green now," he informs her. She smiles fondly, wondering how he manages to seem so capable when everyday things like this so easily flummox him. "It should be fixed now," she smiles. Harry curses himself silently for not realising that already, and drops his voice, sounding rather sheepish. "Er...thanks. Look, you don't have to tell the others about this, alright? Especially not Tariq, he's insufferable enough as it is."

Ruth smiles, knowing exactly what the young technician's reaction would be. "Mum's the word," she assures him. A silence falls between them for a moment, but neither are really willing to let the other go, just yet. But then Harry hears the rest of the team making their way back onto the Grid after their break, Dimitri telling Beth and Alec a raucous tale about his days with the SBS.

"Well," he sighs, "I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy yourself. Bye, Ruth." He is gone. She puts down the phone, and goes to check on her bread. It isn't until much later that she realises she's still grinning like a fool. Or worse, a love-struck teenager...


	5. Tuesday

When she wakes the next morning, the car is already there. A blue Renault Clio, with a single occupant, parked right outside her cottage. She is naturally curious, and naturally worried. But then the phone rings – Polly, wanting to tell her about her latest fling – and she forgets all about it.

But when she glances out of the window next, around midday, the car is still there. Now she's _sure_ she's being watched. The idea irritates her. "Can't a person get any peace?" she wonders in exasperation, and, gathering her courage, she marches outside to confront the driver. He is barely twenty-five, she realises as she approaches, and currently eating what looks suspiciously like a bacon sandwich.

He winds down the window as she reaches him, looking suddenly sheepish. "Can I help?" she asks coldly. "You've been parked here for the best part of a morning." He blushes a deep red. "Er...sorry," he manages. "I'm looking for Ruth Evershed." His voice, despite his blush, is perfectly calm and collected. Typical of the security services. "_I'm_ Ruth Evershed," she tells him. Despite her anger, she catches a flash of disbelief in his eyes. She sighs – even after five years of working, on and off, in the service, she still gets this sort of treatment. She looks far too much like a librarian or someone's mother to ever be taken completely seriously by anyone who doesn't know her well. "Protocol?" she asks him smoothly. His face darkens with suspicion. "You first," he suggests.

Ruth scowls. "Echo foxtrot lemur Lady Lazarus," she reels off. Her call sign hasn't changed since her return, even though she's petitioned many times for one that isn't based on a Silvia Plath poem. The officer's face clears and he recites, "Alpha bravo tango Praetorian." Ruth wrinkles her nose. "Praetorian – as in _guard_? Why?" she asks. She isn't at all sure why she's being watched by her own people – is it for her safety or theirs?

The man she now realises is her protection winces and says, "Can you get in? I don't like talking about all this in the middle of a street." Ruth hesitates for a moment, and then gets into the car, leaving the passenger door open in case she needs to make a quick getaway. The officer turns to her and explains, "Harry Pearce asked for a man to be put onto protection duty for you this week. Seemed to think it was necessary." Ruth's jaw drops. "_Harry_ sent you?" she asks incredulously. "What Section are you? Who the hell are you?"

Her officer shrinks back into his seat nervously. "C," he mumbles. "I'm new at this – that's why they sent me. Didn't think it'd be a hard job. If they find out you know I'm here, I'll get it in the neck for sure. Sir Harry said you weren't to know..." He trails off at the sight of Ruth's mutinous expression. "Right," she says firmly to herself. "That is it..."

The young man watches in amazement as his assignment lurches out of the car and back up the path. A moment later the cottage door slams shut.

* * *

Harry picks up his phone after the first ring, for which Ruth is grateful. She isn't sure if she can maintain her current levels of anger for long without breaking something. How_ dare_ Harry spy on her? "Harry Pearce speaking." He sounds quite calm, and Ruth enjoys the knowledge that she is going to shatter that. "It's Ruth," she announces through gritted teeth.

In his office, Harry's attitude becomes suddenly eager. He leans forward in his chair, and lifts his phone, taking Ruth off speakerphone. "Ruth, hello. How are you enjoying your break? How's the weather?" Her next words make it perfectly clear that this isn't a social call: "To hell with the weather, Harry! Why is there a man in a blue Clio outside my house?" Harry winces. He had made it perfectly clear to the Section C operative that he shouldn't make contact with his assignment. It was a precaution only. He thinks on his feet, and decides that feigning ignorance is the best policy. If she hasn't actually spoken to the operative, he may be able to keep his involvement secret.

"I have no idea," he tells her, trying to sound honest. "I'm a man of many talents, Ruth, but that, I'm afraid, is beyond – " She interrupts him without a qualm, looking out of the window again. The operative waves, and she rolls her eyes. "You're a bloody liar, Harry Pearce," she informs him angrily. "I went out and spoke to him. He _told_ me you'd sent him. Why are you spying on me?" He allows himself a small smile at the thought that he has managed to provoke such irritation in her, and leans back in his chair.

"Alright, you caught me," he confesses in his most disarmingly charming voice. "You're an MI5 operative – it's standard procedure." For all the good it does, he might as well have not spoken. At least, Ruth carries on as though he hasn't. "How did you even know where I was staying? Or did you have me followed?" She can't believe that Harry, of all people, has stooped to this level. It's petty, and mean, and downright unprofessional...

When Harry next speaks, he has the cheek, in Ruth's opinion, to sound thoroughly indignant. "In my defence, I did not. You told Tariq, and he thought I might be... interested." He bites his lip anxiously, waiting for a reply. For a moment, he thinks she's going to hang up on him. In the cottage, Ruth pauses for a moment, wondering why the technician had felt the need to inform Harry of the details she'd told him in confidence. Does everyone think there is something going on? Is it all that obvious? The thought rekindles her dying anger somewhat. "A fine advert he is for the security services!" Ruth snaps. "You tell him from me, Harry Pearce, that once I get back, the flu'll be the least of his worries!"

Harry chuckles, and Ruth finds a reluctant smile pulling at the corners of her own mouth. "Alright," he promises her, and hears his phone beep. Groaning as he reads the name of the new caller, he tells her, "Ruth, I've got the Home Secretary on the other line, I'll have to go. I'm... sorry." His parting shot somehow manages to mollify her – something she is beginning to think only he is capable of.

A quarter of an hour later, the driver in the Clio receives a phone call. A further five minutes passes, and then his car pulls away quietly, so as not to disturb the woman in the cottage, who is still staring fondly at the phone in her lap.


	6. Wednesday

"No disturbances for at least half an hour! I'm checking through some important files," Harry shouts as he marches across the Grid. The JIC has taken even longer than usual this morning, and to cap it all, Ruth's replacement for the week has decided to turn up as well. The mere fact that she is Ruth's replacement is enough to earn her Harry's disapproval, even if she is only a temp from GCHQ that they've ferried over at short notice. But it's more than that – he's only spent an hour with her (at the team briefing that morning), and he is already wondering how he will last the week without sacking her. She's a blonde twenty-something with Kate Moss's legs and the brain of a starfish, from what he can gather. She's had the cheek to commandeer Ruth's desk, into the bargain, and she's sitting there now sipping a coffee, while Dimitri regales her with tales of his life in the SBS.

His brows furrow into a dark frown as he slams his office door shut. He sits down at his desk and reaches for the first in a huge pile of files on his desk, planning to distract himself from the chaos that he can tell is brewing on the rest of the Grid. Somehow, he finds himself picking up his phone and tapping in the speed-dial code for Ruth's mobile. If he doesn't moan to someone, he knows he'll explode, and she's the only one who'll understand...

"Harry?" Her voice is like balm to his frazzled soul, cool and soft, and a little surprised. He automatically smiles, feeling more relaxed already, and replies, "Hi, Ruth. You don't mind me calling, do you?" He knows it's more than a little unfair to keep calling her when she's meant to be on holiday, but he's selfish enough to care more about the fact that their chats are fast becoming the bright points of his days. The fact that she immediately squeaks, "Not at all!" as though she's afraid he'll hang up is vaguely comforting and it flatters his vanity to believe that she means it.

"How are you?" she asks anxiously. He sounds tired, as though he's just finished a conversation with some bureaucrat from the Home Office, or, worse, the Home Secretary himself. He doesn't answer her question, but merely bursts out abruptly with, "Your temp from GCHQ turned up this morning – earliest we could get her clearance over here – and she's awful. Looks about fifteen, probably got a degree in American Studies, or some such rubbish..."

In her cottage kitchen, Ruth can't resist voicing the jibe that springs immediately to her mind. "Where's your spirit of Atlanticism?" she teases dryly. Harry's mouth twitches, and he continues, sounding only slightly mollified, "She's completely upsetting the whole dynamic – and she's only been here for a few hours! Beth's looking daggers at her already, and Tariq and Dimitri can't keep their eyes off her either, although for entirely different reasons, I'll admit." Ruth giggles, and then a sudden, surprising stab of anxiety makes her ask, "And you?" Why she should care what Harry thinks about the poor girl's appearance is beyond her, but she still holds her breath, waiting for his answer.

Harry's brown eyes soften as he hears her question, and he longs to set her mind completely at ease. But the best he can do is murmur quietly, "Certainly not my type. You should know that by now, Ruth..." Ruth's cheeks flush at his last words – she knows full well what his type is. Bonkers, but brilliant. Principled, but not foolish... or naive. She remembers it all so well. "Hmm," she mumbles, incapable of sane speech for a moment. Then, she manages to rally herself and orders him, "Give her a chance. With some experience, she'll get better. Play nicely with the new girl."

"Alright, Ruth. Thanks for putting up with me." He's not sure why he adds the last bit – in any other mood, he would see that he is wallowing in self-pity, and be able to shake himself out of it. Ruth smiles sadly. _I'll always put up with you, Harry Pearce, even when you're being a grumpy old sod..._she thinks, shaking her head. Another alarming thought strikes her.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Ruth?"

"Don't play _too_ nicely." She realises then how inappropriate her comment was, and starts to apologise. "Not that it's anything to do with me, of course... I mean, it's your life... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply-" Harry bursts out laughing, although he is extremely touched by her words. They prove what she won't admit in her saner moments. "Don't worry, Ruth. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

She is so mortified by her recent _faux pas_ that she can't be sure, later, how she answered him. She thinks she mentioned something about that being lovely, that she was looking forward to it. She thinks she said goodbye. She isn't at all sure.

* * *

The temp (her name's Liza, as she told a glowing Tariq a few hours ago) looks up from her desk and comments, "I didn't know 'checking files' was Section D code for 'calling my wife'." Beth's head jerks up from her computer screen in confusion. "What?" she snaps, sounding uncharacteristically sour. Liza nods her head towards Harry's office. He is wearing a fond smile, a softer glint in his eye than his latest employee had thought possible, judging from the early moments of their acquaintance.

"Sir Harry. Calling his wife – look at his face," she explains. Tariq glances over and then shrugs. "Sorry to prove your powers of deduction wrong, Liza, but he isn't married." Liza frowns in disappointment for a second, and then her face clears. "Well, girlfriend then," she grins triumphantly. Dimitri winks at Beth, and flings a provocative arm around the temp's shoulders. Beth rolls her eyes in mock disgust and returns to her computer. "Nope, 'fraid not," he tells her.

Inspiration strikes all three – Beth, Dimitri and Tariq – at approximately the same second. Suddenly, all three are grinning like Cheshire Cats. "What?" asks Liza, noticing her colleagues' smiles.

"Nothing," they chorus smoothly.

**A/N:** Thanks for all the lovely reviews! It is a privilege and a real compliment to receive reviews from people whose own fanfics I have so enjoyed in the past. Next time... things get a little angsty.


	7. Thursday

She is up and dressed by seven-thirty the next morning, fearing lest she misses his call. It's ridiculous, she knows, and so she takes herself off for a walk, checking five or six times that she has her mobile in her bag. On her way, she rings him, and gets straight through to his voicemail. "Hi, Harry, it's Ruth, just ringing to check in. I know you had that meeting with Towers today, so I just wanted to wish you luck. Erm... bye."

Ruth waits all morning for him to call her back. She keeps the phones (mobile and landline) on the table next to her as she eats lunch – leek and potato soup and fresh bread. She isn't really hungry and abstractedly wonders if she's coming down with something. By two o'clock, she is positively frustrated – with herself or Harry, she doesn't know. _He has important work to do_, she reminds herself firmly. _He hasn't spoken to his daughter for a month, so God knows how far up the list of important calls you are. Probably somewhere between his ex-wife and Juliet Shaw..._ It is a very morbid thought, and she knows it.

Determined to occupy herself with something other than phone watching, she turns on the TV. And her world falls apart. "We're having reports that a bomb has gone off near Thames House in Whitehall, narrowly missing a car carrying the Home Secretary and a high-level member of the security services. Members of the anti-terrorism department are on the scene, and several people, as yet unidentified, are seriously injured..." That is all she hears. The news presenter continues on with her report and pictures are flashing up on the screen of a burnt out crater in the middle of a horribly familiar Whitehall street, but Ruth just sinks onto the sofa, wondering if he is alright. She tries to convince herself that he is, but he hasn't called her back and... Visions of Juliet Shaw (the casualty of the last car bomb Harry was involved in) lying in a hospital bed, paralysed, come vividly into the forefront of her mind.

She reaches for the phone immediately. Voicemail again. _Oh, no, God no..._ Her voice is shaking as she speaks. "God, Harry, I just saw the news. Get in touch as soon as you can – it looks really bad, and I'm... worried. Let me know you're OK." It is the start of a hellish afternoon. Ruth sits glued to the television, waiting for any news, knowing that any she does glean will be most likely an hour behind the times. All she can think about is the wasted opportunities. The times when she has said one thing and meant something entirely different. The times when he has offered his heart to her and she has refused to take it... "Oh, Harry," she whispers, tears trickling down her cheeks.

Four o'clock. He still hasn't called. Beth, Tariq and Dimitri aren't answering their phones either, which scares her even more. For the first time, she realises how fortunate her job makes her – even when the news is bad, knowledge is so much better than ignorance. Ruth may be a highly pragmatic person, but she also has a vivid imagination, which, as any good psychologist will tell you, is a fatal combination. Images of Harry lying bloodstained and broken in a hospital bed make her stomach churn. Somehow she finds herself ringing Harry's number again. Damn voicemail. "Harry, it's Ruth again. If I don't hear from you in another half-hour, I'm coming back to London. Just let me know you're alright." Sometime after this she dozes off, curled up on the sofa, clutching a cushion, which is damp with tears, to her chest.

She dreams. Harry is there, holding a child. Somehow she knows it is theirs, and realises that she is looking at what could have, and what should have, been. He smiles at her, and holds out his free arm, wrapping it around her. His embrace is comforting and warm. She can feel his lips on her forehead, and her mouth... _RING...ring...RING..._ Ruth jerks awake, and clutches at the vibrating phone. There's a text, and a pleasantly warm shiver runs down her spine as she realises it's from Harry. Her hands are shaking so much, from a mixture of relief that he's alright, and fear that someone else isn't, that it takes her several attempts to open the message. It is brief: _Will speak soon. Don't fret. H_. But those words make her smile for the first time that day.

He eventually calls her half an hour later. She leaps on the phone and manages to answer it even before it has rung twice. "Harry?" she squeaks anxiously, and is rewarded when his deep voice tells her soothingly, "Ruth – it's alright, everyone's OK, Beth got a bit of a scratch but she'll be fine." Her gasp of relief makes him feel strangely elated, because it proves, alongside her frantic messages, that she has been worried about him.

"And you?" she asks. "You're alright?" She is determined to make utterly sure that he is intact, whole, and unharmed before even thinking about anyone else. "I'm fine," he reassures her firmly. "I've just spent a quarter of an hour with Sally Chapman, so I'm more in danger of dying of boredom than anything else." Ruth gives a watery chuckle – he's always hated the service doctor – and wipes away the tears that are running down her cheeks. "Thank God," she smiles. "When I saw the news, I was so scared, Harry. They were reporting casualties, and I thought..." She is unable to finish her sentence, and Harry's face darkens at the thought of her, alone in her cottage, with no one to comfort her.

"Bloody press!" he growls. "There's cameras and journalists all over the place down here – it's like bloody Piccadilly Circus!" Ruth grins weakly at his flippant tone, and inquires, "How's the Home Secretary?" Harry chuckles bitterly, and glances over to where Towers is sitting on the steps of one of the ambulances, wrapped in a foil blanket. "Oh, Towers is fine too. He's a politician – his type don't die, they merely decline. A bit shaken up, but that's all to the good. If he can nearly be blown up when my budget's still intact, then he'll think twice about cutting it." He suddenly realises that he's talking far too much shop, and quietens. But Ruth, having waited all day, wants to know everything. "The BBC's reporting that it was an Al-Qaeda cell. Is that true?" Harry turns and walks back into Thames House as he answers her. "Hardly a cell – it looks like an improvised job. Probably a lone operative..."

He trails off as Dimitri beckons him over from the desk. Beth is sitting next to him, holding an ice pack to her cut forehead. "I'm sorry, Ruth, I'll have to go – Dimitri's got something." Ruth's smile falters at the thought that he'll have to leave her, when she's only just regained him, but she quickly pulls herself together. _Work comes first_, she reminds herself firmly. "Of course. Give everybody my love, and tell Beth that there's spare gauze in the bathroom cabinet if she needs to rebind her cut," she instructs him. Harry smiles to himself – that's Ruth, always thinking about everyone else, when she must have been so worried about them all.

"I will. Bye."

"Bye, Harry."

When she rises to replace the phone, Ruth sees that her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are glinting with something strangely akin to triumph. Once more, they have beaten Fate, and survived. The thought gives her hope. All is not lost.


	8. Christmas Eve

The knock at the door surprises Ruth as she's munching her way through a large bowl of cornflakes the next morning. The shock of yesterday has done wonders for her appetite today, so she curses as she rises from the table and pads over to the door in her slippers and pyjamas. A deliveryman is standing there, holding a parcel and a clipboard. Inwardly, Ruth groans – signing for Polly's packages was definitely not part of the deal. But the man surprises her when he asks, "Are you Ms Evershed?" Ruth nods and he shoves the clipboard at her. "Sign, please."

Once she's done so, he hands over the parcel, and she notices that it's wrapped in festive paper. Ruth assumes it's from Polly – there isn't a tag, which figures well with her friend's reputation as a scatterbrain. Shaking her head in gentle amusement as she shuts the door, Ruth picks up the phone and calls Polly's mobile.

"Hi, Poll, it's Ruth."

"Ruthie? How are you? Is the cottage OK?" Polly sounds as though she's still in bed, probably with her latest boyfriend.

"Everything's great," Ruth grins. "I'm just ringing to thank you for the present, it arrived this morning."

"Present? What present?" Polly asks in weary bemusement. Ruth frowns slightly. Polly's a scatterbrain, not an amnesiac. Usually, if you remind her about something, she'll remember in a flash. She decides to persist: "My Christmas present. The delivery man's just brought it over."

Polly gasps audibly. "Oh, Christ! Ruthie, I'm so sorry – I meant to send one, and then it just went out of my head!"

"Then... you didn't send a present?" Ruth confirms, stunned.

"No – sorry. Guess I'm not your Secret Santa, Ruth." Polly is smiling, and Ruth blushes as she recalls all the conversations they've had in the past about a certain colleague of hers. "Oh, Polly, you don't think Harry-"

Polly sits up in bed, phone in one hand as she runs the other through her sophisticatedly mussed hair. "I really don't know, Ruth. I mean, the guy proposed to you three months ago, so I'm sure the idea of buying you a Christmas present doesn't faze him." Ruth groans, and Polly is instantly alert. "What? He's sweet! When I came to your birthday party last year, he couldn't take his eyes off you for the entire evening! And you like him too – you told me so."

"I more than like him, Polly! I mean, it's _Harry_. But I've made my choice – it isn't fair to go back on it now. I can't mess him around like that," she sighs. Polly snorts with laughter. "Oh, Ruthie. Poor, honest Ruthie. Sod fair, sweetie. If you love him, go for it. The last time I saw you, you had a face like a wet Wednesday and you couldn't stop crying for ten minutes together!" Ruth smiles. She and Polly have known each other since their first day at Oxford, and she has always been able to rely on her friend's blunt good sense, if not her memory.

"Alright. But we don't even know if Harry sent it. It's probably just us jumping to conclusions-"

"Rubbish. Oh, sorry, I'll have to get up, Ruth. I've... got company." There is a wicked tone to Polly's voice, and Ruth bites her lip in amusement. "I hope he's worth it, Poll."

Her friend's voice is slightly muffled, almost as though someone is trying to kiss her neck. "Oh, he is..."

* * *

"Hi, Catherine." Harry is still slightly hesitant when talking to his daughter, despite the fact that in the past few years, their relationship has improved dramatically. "It's Dad." He signs off a file while he waits for her to reply, knowing that she is probably doing something else too.

"Hi, Dad. Not got yourself suspended again, have you?" his daughter jokes, and Harry chuckles. There's a serious message there, though, and he knows it. There was a time, in the not-too-distant past when he would only have called during office hours if, for some reason he wasn't _at_ the office. "No, no... I just wanted to thank you for helping me choose that present the other day. I wouldn't have had a clue, otherwise." It had been a pleasant experience, actually, with Catherine back in the UK for a business trip over Christmas. They'd shopped for a while, and then he'd taken her out for a meal, noting all the while how much she looked and sounded like a younger version of his ex-wife. Surprisingly, he didn't think it a bad thing.

"Oh, it was no trouble. Ruth deserves a bit more than chocolates, I think..." Harry's eyes widen in shock and he can't speak for a moment. Finally, he croaks, "I didn't say it was for Ruth." In her hotel room, Catherine mentally sighs at her father's obtuseness. "Oh, Dad – a blind man could have worked that out! She's lovely. If you hadn't made the mistake of proposing to her at a funeral, everything would be alright."

Harry frowns. Ever since he confessed this sad truth to his daughter, she's taken every opportunity to remind him of it. "I know. But then, good timing and subtlety have never been my strongest qualities, Catherine. Ask your mother." Knowing Jane, she'd quickly disabuse Catherine of the idea that her father had any trait that even approached tact... "Well," his daughter reproves him, "let's hope this works, Dad. I... don't like it when you're so glum." Her father's face softens at the tone of affection he can detect in Catherine's voice.

"Me neither, sweetheart. Me neither."


	9. Christmas Day

**A/N:** Possibly the last chapter. It's very long, but I couldn't bear to split it up – I think I might have been shot if I'd attempted to delay posting the last part, anyway. Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews once again – every single one is deeply appreciated. Now – on with the story...

* * *

Ruth wakes up on Christmas Day feeling, for once, excited. Even as a child, Christmas didn't interest her. The loss of her father at the tender age of eleven, and a boarding school education had got rid of all those usual childhood emotions... But today, there is that present. _Harry's present_, her treacherous brain reminds her. Guiltily glancing at her alarm clock, she pulls herself out of bed, and hurries downstairs.

The gift, wrapped in beautiful silver paper, lies under the tree, accompanied by gifts from Beth, Dimitri, Tariq, her mother, and even one Malcolm managed to smuggle past security on one of his visits after the Bateman fiasco. She purposefully opens these first, smiling at the thought that her colleagues appreciate her so much. A new make-up bag from Beth, a bracelet from Tariq, a bottle of her favourite white wine from Dimitri, a small book of poetry from Malcolm, and her usual M&S voucher from her mother. Finally, the silver box is the only gift left.

Hesitantly she peels back the paper, determined to salvage it later. A plain cardboard box is inside, and she opens it, only to find another, smaller one inside that. Sighing in frustration, Ruth lifts the lid of the second box to find a still smaller, jewellers' box there. Her mouth goes dry. She gently lifts it out. A solid-looking envelope lies below it, at the bottom of the larger box. Instinctively, being a person for whom the written word holds infinite joys, she bends down to fetch it, ignoring, for the moment, the jeweller's box.

The missive is long, and written in Harry's unmistakeably elegant hand, on (she hides a smile) thick Home Office paper.

_For Ruth,_

_This may not be your ideal Christmas present, but I know that, being you, you won't grudge me a little self-indulgence – just for the few minutes it will take you to read this letter. I have tried so many times to explain everything to you, but I am enough of a coward to believe that a letter will be easier. Please forgive the necessary sentimentality that may follow._

_I have loved you almost since the moment we met – since you stumbled into the briefing room on your first day, carrying all those files, with a smile, and a sense of (forgive me, my darling) naive optimism. At first, I attempted to tell myself that it was merely the burgeonings of a tardy mid-life crisis, and I am now fully aware of the aspersions that these thoughts cast on my emotional intelligence. Nothing I did helped me to forget these feelings, and soon I realised that I didn't want to._

_It took me so long to pluck up the courage to ask you to dinner. Whatever happens in the future, those hours we spent together, on that night, will live in my memory as some of the happiest of my life. If I had known then that you would be taken away from me so soon afterwards, I would never have allowed them to end. I wouldn't have accepted your brush-off the next day so readily. I would have fought for you, for us. _

_Losing you was...difficult. It will sound a very cold way of describing the situation, perhaps, but there is no other way to explain it. Life went on around me, the Grid functioned, I went to work, I came home, I drank, I read far more Catullus than was strictly good for me. But I couldn't forget you, or the docks, or our kiss, or stop wondering how you were, where you were, what you were doing – who you were doing it with. I wished every day that you would come back home at some time. I wanted you to come back to me, so that I could tell you how I felt, the regrets I had for the past, and the hopes for the future. But I would never have wanted to have you back at the price we paid. I always felt that something broke when you lost George – our friendship was damaged, and we lost that connection that we'd always had. I couldn't bring myself to think of you as mine any more._

_But then things changed, and I began to hope again, to believe that our situation wasn't so desperate as I'd thought. Ruth, I made the mistake of proposing to you. I cringe now to remember it – what woman would have said yes to a proposal made at a funeral, out of the blue, when her paramour didn't even tell her that he loved her? I bumbled, and blustered, and I may have even suggested that marrying you only meant having another mourner after I'm pushing up daisies. You'll be frowning now, at my flippant tone, so I apologise. Marrying you meant so much more to me, and it still does. It means always having you with me, even when I'm grey and old (older, Tariq would say!) and so grumpy that not even Malcolm will put up with me anymore. It means raising children, and even grandchildren, together. It means knowing that there is one person from whom I don't have to hide my life – even those parts of which I'm not particularly proud. _

_These past few months have been one bloody disaster after another. Albany. Lucas. The inquiry. I have to confess - the file was a fake. You probably think that this was why I could justify giving it up for you. You're wrong. It would have been the hardest decision I have ever had to make, but I would have chosen you, even if the file had been real. I will always choose you. E.M. Forster once said, "If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country." Being the principled person you are, Ruth, you'll be thinking that this is a foolish code to live your life by, but the point is that if we cannot feel, then we lose the ability to do our jobs properly. We forget where to draw the line. We risk, to paraphrase you, becoming numb and dead inside._

_I love you, Ruth, and even though I have never said it to your face, I trust your intellect enough to know that you've probably worked it out by now. However, I have another confession to make. The night all those years ago, when I accosted you on your bus, you were reading a book. It was "Persuasion," by Jane Austen, and I was so in love with you that I bought the book myself, and read it, just for the feeling of being close to you in some way. And now I find myself in the same position as Captain Wentworth, writing the woman he loves a desperate letter. I can find no better words to tell you what I wish to say than his: "You pierce my soul. I am half-agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it..." I'm asking you to give me one more chance to get things right. To improve my timing. To show you how happy I can make you. _

_Give me a sign, Ruth._

_Harry x_

Ruth sits on the floor, tears running down her cheeks, even as she laughs with joy. Harry, reading Catullus. Harry, quoting Captain Wentworth and E.M. Forster. Harry, _still loving her_. She leaps to her feet, seizing her car keys from the mantelpiece. The forgotten box falls from her lap as she does so, and she remembers that the letter (as if it isn't enough) is only part of his present. A ring nestles in the box, silver with a single diamond set into it. Simple and elegant. She knows immediately what it signifies, and falters, reality returning as her euphoria fails. He wants her to marry him. She knows that – the letter as much as confessed it. Ruth bites her lip in indecision and fear. She can't make this decision alone. She must see Harry.

* * *

"Can I speak to Harry Pearce, please?" she gasps several hours later, as she stands dripping snowflakes in the elaborate vestibule of Harry's club in London. The bewildered concierge glances at the computer screen in front of him, and then turns back to Ruth, frowning.

"I'm sorry, Miss...?

"Evershed."

"Well, I'm sorry, Miss Evershed, but _Sir_ Harry is dining at present, and does not wish to be disturbed," he tells her coolly, with an air of definite superiority that she hates. Her heart sinks. "Can't you get a message to him?" she pleads. "It's desperately important." The concierge sighs with the air of having been interrupted in the middle of a crucial task, and then asks, "What's the message?"

Ruth bites her lip, unsure of what to say. She can't confess her feelings here, to this horrid little man. She wants Harry to appear. She feels like crying. "Have you got some paper, and a pen?" she replies at last. Supplied with these implements, she sits herself down in a corner of the lobby, and with many pauses, she scribbles down a note, and folds it twice, before presenting it to the waiting concierge. As he departs, she can't help following him with her eyes, wondering if she has done the right thing...

* * *

He doesn't know why he agreed to this dinner. Perhaps it's because he has nothing else to do today apart from keep Scarlett company. Catherine's at Jane's house for the day, as she so apologetically informed him on their day out, when he asked if she'd like to have Christmas dinner with him. So now he sits across the table from the Home Secretary, utterly bored, and longing to escape.

"Excuse me, Sir Harry..."

Harry's attention immediately switches from the less-than-erudite conversation of the Home Secretary, sitting opposite him, and onto the concierge standing in front of him. "A message for you, sir." Harry accepts the folded piece of paper, and jokes dryly, "I wonder what national crisis we're about to be plunged into this time."

The Home Secretary is not a highly observant man, especially after consuming more whisky than is strictly good for him, but even he manages to detect a change in the face of Section D's Head as his brown eyes scan the paper before him. He swallows once and then forces a smile, and turns to the concierge again. "Thank you."

"Nothing important, I hope, Harry?" The Home Secretary's voice is slightly slurred, but Harry ignores this as he replies, "No. Not at all."

* * *

The concierge returns to tell her that he's delivered her note. She waits. She wants to see if he'll come down to speak to her. But he doesn't. He's changed his mind. She just knows it, and curses herself for spoiling everything, for tearing off the safety ropes that keep her life afloat. But she can't leave. If she waits just five more minutes... The concierge at last approaches and kindly (but at the same time using a tone of voice that suggests she's outstayed her welcome) offers to get her a taxi. She shakes her head firmly, convinced that if she makes any attempt at speech, she'll burst into tears.

Ruth runs out into the snow, finally realising that her dream is over.

* * *

She'd just telephoned through, then. A simple 'thank you' for his present. She hasn't even bothered to wait until they get back to work, to decline his advances in person... A thought strikes him suddenly and he retrieves the note from the side of his plate, where he'd hastily thrust it after the first reading. His eyes scan it again, noting the club letterhead at the top. It is Ruth's handwriting. And that means...

Harry lurches to his feet, cursing himself silently. "Harry...?" the Home Secretary asks bemusedly.

"Do excuse me, Home Secretary, I have to go."

"But, Harry...?" The whole dining room turns their heads as he sprints for the door.

A quick scan of the lobby is enough to assure him that she is no longer here. He walks over to the concierge's desk, but he doesn't know where's she gone either. "I offered to fetch her a taxi, sir, but she refused. Said she'd _walk_. On a night like this, too!" But Harry isn't listening.

After half an hour of searching for her, he gives up. He's already disturbed a rather tipsy Beth by going round to the house she shares with Ruth, and asking after her there. He hopes he hasn't worried her. But where else would Ruth have gone? He tries the church where Ruth sings in the choir, he even rings the rest of the team, telling them all that they're fired if they cover for her.

Nothing. Depressed, he asks his driver to drop him off near Thames House. He might as well go and finish off some files. After all, he has nothing better to do. The security guards cheerfully let him in, with a shout of, "Section D, working hard as usual, sir!" and he steps straight into the pods. The Grid, to his surprise isn't dark, as he'd expected.

One light is on.

One face is bent over her computer.

The face he most wants to see.

"Hello." His voice is light, and there's a teasing note to it. Ruth freezes and then looks up slowly, as if she can't believe the evidence of her own ears. When she sees him standing there, she rises too, twisting her hands together in that adorably nervous way that he loves so much. He thinks he sees something glitter there for a second, but before he can investigate further, she speaks, and his attention is immediately diverted.

"How did you know I'd be here?" she asks quietly, and he can't help noticing that her eyes look vaguely red-rimmed, as if she's been crying.  
"I didn't, actually. Just thought I'd come and get some files done, you know, avoid the post-Christmas rush..." Her face falls, and her voice is much too high when she replies. "Oh, of course. Sorry."

She slides back into her seat and focuses her attention on her screen again, tucking a stray wisp of brown hair behind her ear. But Harry hasn't finished. "I got your note. Er...how was Cornwall?"

"Beautiful," she replies shortly, her chin quivering slightly.

"You aren't due back until Monday," he reminds her. Testing. Pushing. Dancing around her. Hearing what she isn't saying. She forces herself to face him, and everything comes gushing out. "Well, I got your present, and I realised...I realised that I missed you. So-" Harry moves closer to sit on the edge of her desk, and finishes her sentence.

"So you came hurtling up to London to my club." She can tell he's amused, and she's fighting a faint smile herself when she corrects him, "Not straight to your club. I went to your house first, but you weren't there."

He grins and tells her firmly, "Another time, if it's offered – which I seriously doubt it will be – I'd appreciate you making sure I don't dine with the Home Secretary. I might miss you again."

The implications of the sentence hang in the air between them for a moment and then Ruth murmurs, "Harry." Everything moves so quickly. She's on her feet and somehow in his arms before either of them realise that she's moved. Her head is buried into the velvet collar of his overcoat, her arms clutching at him as though she'll never let go. He cradles her head against his shoulder, smoothing her hair with a shaking hand. At last she draws back, trembling as well, and murmurs his name again.

"Harry."

"I know," he whispers. "Oh, my darling, I know."

She sighs, and protests softly, "But let me say it."

"No." His voice is firm, and she's still so close that he hears her sharp intake of breath, and sees the flash of worry in her blue eyes. "N-no?" she queries, that vulnerable quiver in her voice again. His slow smile comforts her. "No. Not before me. I've waited five years to say this to you, Ms Evershed – get in the bloody queue." Ruth's sudden laugh gives him the courage he needs to confess, "I love you, Ruth. And I know I'm not perfect. I'm moody sometimes, and entirely too Victorian for the tastes of some..."

He kneels in front of her, and murmurs softly, "I'm no woman's dream man, but I promise that if you give me a chance, you won't regret it. Will you marry me, Ruth?" Her pause is almost long enough to make him believe she'll say no. And then she smiles, rather sheepishly. "Actually, Harry..."

She holds up the back of her left hand to him, revealing the silver and diamond ring that is settled very comfortably on her fourth finger. Harry's jaw drops. He pauses for a moment, and then tells his fiancée with mock-sternness, "You could have informed me about your latest little lifestyle choice _before_ I decided to behave like a thirty year old and kneel." He gives a groan of exertion as Ruth helps him to his feet.

"Sorry," she whispers into his ear. "Whatever can I do to restore myself to your good graces?"

Harry's eyes widen and his wicked chuckle sends pleasant shivers down her spine. "Oh, don't worry – I'm sure to think of _something_, Ruth."

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to espiyo, for being the only person to mention the possibility of an engagement ring being a part of Harry's present – even if you did immediately discount it! It made me smile to think I'd at least fooled one person. There's an epilogue, if anyone fancies reading it... Let me know. If not, I hope you enjoyed the fic.


	10. Epilogue: New Year's Eve

Used to being the one standing alone at a New Year's Eve party, it is a pleasant surprise when Ruth walks over to him, carrying two glasses of champagne. Tonight, she is positively glowing in a dark blue silk dress, cut to accentuate all her most attractive features. She kisses his lips gently when she reaches him and his hands automatically settle on her waist. "Mmm..." he mumbles softly, closing his eyes. She draws back and he opens his eyes to find her looking seriously up at him. "Harry?" Her voice is light, but he can tell that something's troubling her.

"Yes, Ruth?" he replies patiently, knowing that when she's in a mood like this, it's best just to play along. She is leaning against the roof balcony (Beth insisted on getting together at the Grid for New Year's Eve), dark hair hanging elegantly over one shoulder, and there's a slight frown playing between her eyebrows. "Why didn't you come straight away? When you got the note? I waited, and waited, and then the concierge threw me out-" Her voice is growing more high-pitched by the second, and Harry can tell that it's something she's been thinking about for a while. He shuffles his feet slightly and then admits sheepishly, "I got distracted by the club letterhead and I didn't notice it was your handwriting until a few minutes later. I never thought you'd come dashing all the way up to London to thank me for your present."

Ruth purses his lips. "Not _just_ to say thank you, Harry," she reproves him, blushing slightly. He grins cheekily. "No – although you've certainly done that." Dodging the swipe she aims at his arm, he continues quickly, "And anyway, I was dining with the Home Secretary; his company is hardly conducive to fast thinking." He pauses for a moment, and then asks, somewhat anxiously, "Am I forgiven?"

Ruth pretends to think and then her face breaks out into a smile. "Always," she promises quietly. "Always."

* * *

Back on the Grid, the countdown begins – Tariq's somehow managed to hook his laptop up to one of the BBC satellite transmitters and they're all crowded round his desk. Harry wraps an arm around Ruth's shoulders and she rests her head against the lapel of his dinner jacket, breathing in the scent of his aftershave with quiet delight.

"_Ten!"_

"Ruth?" he whispers. She turns her face up to his, a quizzical look in her eyes. Beth is holding hands with Dmitri, and Alec is still downing what seems to be his tenth lager. Tariq is fiddling with some sort of dial, trying to improve the sound.

"_Nine!"_

"What?" she asks. Now is the time for him to reveal his other surprise – arranged with the help of Tariq's hacking skills and several surreptitious phone calls at odd hours to Malcolm.

"_Eight!"_

"I've been thinking – have you got any plans next week?" Ruth frowns. "Plans?"

"Of the holiday variety," he elaborates quietly.

"_Seven!"_

"Oh, Harry – we agreed we wouldn't have time for a honeymoon. After all, everything's happened so quickly, and we'd never get the leave..." She turns back to the computer screen.

"_Six!"_

"Actually," he interrupts her firmly. "We have. The DG signed the paperwork himself." He crosses his fingers in his pocket, hoping she never has an opportunity to ask him about it. The calling in of _that _little favour would not, he knows, earn him much approval. She turns to him, eyes shining. "Really? How-?"

"_Five!"_

He shakes his head smilingly. "There's a car waiting to pick us up right after the party. We're booked onto a late train to Edinburgh, and from there, there's a car to a little cottage in the country where there's a car passing by about once every two days. Peaceful, remote – I think you'll like it..."

"_Four!"_

She slips her hand into his and he kisses it softly. "At such short notice, it must have been so expensive..." she frets, that anxious frown appearing again. He nods. "It would have been –"

"_Three!"_

"- had it not been for the fact that Malcolm owns it. There are certain advantages to being good friends with multi-millionaires..." Ruth raises her eyebrows. "Have you two been plotting? I only spoke to him yesterday – I wondered why he sounded so vague when I suggested he should come over for dinner next week!"

"So you're free?" Harry persists.

"_Two!"_

"I'll have to check my diary," she tells him in a mock-serious tone. "And then, I'd have to speak to my husband – he's very protective, and I don't think he'd appreciate me running off to Scotland a week after our wedding..."

Harry laughs softly. "Oh, Ruth..."

"_One!"_

His lips descend on hers as cheers erupt from the rest of the team. On screen, fireworks explode over London. Ruth's eyes are closed and her expression can only be described as blissful. He brushes the gold wedding band that rests on her finger and breaks their kiss. She smiles up at him, opening her gloriously blue eyes. "Happy New Year, Lady Pearce," he growls.

_Fin._

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**A/N:** And that really is the end. A final big thank you to everyone who read this fic (whether you reviewed or not) and a Merry Christmas. And if you're wondering about Malcolm and his cash, it was one of my favourites parts of the Personnel Files and I just had to include it! I have an idea for a sequel, possibly involving the honeymoon... Thoughts? Stuff you'd like to see?


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